


every hand's a winner

by hamiltrashed



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Anal Sex, Daryl is not, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poker Nights, Rick is shit at poker, Stair Sex, Strip Poker, This is just PWP really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5681242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltrashed/pseuds/hamiltrashed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick loses at strip poker and gets his consolation prize in the form of bending Daryl over the stairs (featuring Rick in too-small underwear and Daryl being cocky).</p>
            </blockquote>





	every hand's a winner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [no_path_untaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/no_path_untaken/gifts).



> Bless my darling beta, Michelle_A_Emerlind for being the best beta ever. <3 And bless my biffle, no_path_untaken, for always being around when I need you. <3

“I think this is really unnecessary. What rule says the participants can’t get dressed again before leaving?”

Daryl grins. “Glenn’s rule. You lost. Get over it. Take your walk of shame with a little dignity.”  
  
Rick glares at Daryl as they cross the lawn back to their own house from Glenn and Maggie’s, Daryl only shirtless, Rick significantly more undressed. “I didn’t lose, you cheated,” he accuses. “You and Glenn.”

Daryl snorts. “You’re just a sore loser, Grimes. And nobody told you to wear the tightest and smallest pair of boxer briefs you got.”

Rick frowns. “Well, that isn’t _my_ fault, is it?” He drops his voice into a slightly deeper register and says, “‘I’ll get the laundry done tomorrow Rick, don’t worry.’” He holds Daryl’s hoodie against his crotch, his own jeans against his ass in an attempt to cover himself while trying to keep his boots tucked under one arm.  
  
Daryl makes a little ‘psshh’ sound. “I don’t sound like that. Anyway, your legs ain’t broken. I saw your ass glued to that couch this afternoon, you coulda done it then. You knew where we were goin’ tonight.”  
  
“I didn’t know we’d be playing _strip poker_ ,” Rick protests. “And it’s the principle of the thing, Daryl. Nevermind, though, you never separate my lights and darks anyway.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, taking the steps up to the porch two at a time and unlocking the front door. Rick looks around to make sure none of their nosy neighbours are watching before giving up on trying to cover himself and darting up the stairs and past Daryl, into the house.

Daryl closes and locks the door behind them and flips on the hallway light, smirking at Rick as he drops a pile of clothing and his boots on the floor. “You _do_ look cute in those.”  
  
Rick feels himself flush. “They don’t fit anymore, _obviously_ ,” he replies.  
  
Daryl closes the distance between them and kisses Rick’s cheek, whispering, “That ‘cause you been workin’ out and that ass got bigger? Or is it your dick that has?”  
  
With Daryl’s guard down, it’s too easy; Rick grabs him and turns him around, locking his arms around Daryl’s chest, pressing himself against Daryl’s back, grinding his hips into his ass. He nips a gentle bite against the side of his neck, before pressing his mouth against Daryl’s ear. “You tell me. I don’t know anything, I _lost_ , remember?”  
  
Daryl laughs, but he’s gone a little breathless, Rick can hear it. “Still gotta be a sore loser, huh?”  
  
“Isn’t me that’s gonna be sore in the morning,” Rick tells him.  
  
“Oh, you think you’re fuckin’ me, huh?” Daryl says. “What gives you that idea?”  
  
“Well, I’ll admit that you’re right, I lost. But that means I should get a consolation prize, doesn’t it?” He runs his hands down Daryl’s chest, his stomach, popping open the button on his jeans and sliding one hand into Daryl’s boxers. Daryl groans, his back arching against Rick, hips pushing forward.  
  
“ _Jesus_ , Rick,” Daryl hisses, but Rick doesn’t give him much more than a teaser of what’s to come, slow and steady strokes before he pulls away.  
  
“Don’t move,” Rick says. He leaves Daryl by the front door and goes to the living room, tugging one of the couch seat cushions free and digging behind it. He comes up with bottle of lube from the last time he and Daryl didn’t quite make it upstairs to the bedroom, and returns to the hallway, smirking, holding it aloft.  
  
“Y’know, I’ve never heard of consolation prizes in strip poker,” Daryl says. “There’s winners and then there’s you...”  
  
Rick drags him close by the waist of his jeans, pulling the zipper down and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.  
  
“You still gonna be boasting when I’m balls deep in that perfect ass of yours?” Rick asks against his mouth, and Daryl can’t hide his shiver.  
  
“Boasting about how I won and you lost your clothes in a half hour flat?” Daryl replies between kisses. “Damn right.”  
  
Rick bites and sucks at Daryl’s bottom lip, shoving his boxers and jeans down far enough to grab his ass, pulling Daryl against him, bare cock against the cotton of Rick’s boxer briefs. Suddenly, with Daryl’s hips rocking against his, they’re fitting even less well than they did five minutes ago, and Daryl seems to be losing all ability to speak, his mouth opening only on a series of moans. He kisses Rick harder, kicking off his shoes and shoving his jeans and boxers down, stepping out of them and backing Rick against the door. Rick has to grin at how fast Daryl has gone from 0 to 100, so fast that Rick’s barely got time to keep up, and god it feels good with Daryl against him like this, like they’re teenagers again.  
  
But then Rick turns Daryl away from him once more, nudging him toward the stairs. Daryl doesn’t even have to ask before he’s down on his knees on the carpeted steps, ass in the air and Rick makes a mental note to text Maggie about playing strip poker every Saturday for the rest of their lives. With this kind of sight in front of him, a man could be convinced to lose every hand.  
  
Rick moves behind Daryl, pushing his own boxer briefs down and pressing himself against him, the tip of his cock teasing his hole. Daryl reaches down between his legs, wraps one hand around himself and makes a sound that Rick would definitely call desperation.  
  
Rick pops the top on the bottle of lube. “You want me to open you up first?”  
  
Daryl shakes his head rapidly. “No,” he says, “just want you to fuck me.”  
  
“Oh,” Rick says with a chuckle. “Really? And what was that you were saying just a minute ago about winning?”  
  
“Nothin’,” Daryl replies. “Not a damn thing.”  
  
“S’what I thought.”  
  
It’s hard for Rick to stop touching himself; like an addict with his next fix, his own hand spreading lube down his cock feels so _nice_ , and he’s not that self-obsessed, but he’s always reminded at a time like this that he just _likes_ the way he twists his hand halfway up, rubs his thumb across the slit and down just under the head. Of course, he’s also reminded that Daryl taught him that trick years and years ago, under the bleachers during a high school football game that Rick had gotten out of by claiming to be “deathly sick, coach, I swear” and it felt so-wrong-but-right to lie and even better with Daryl’s hands on him. And even though he could stand there just like that and get off on the sight of Daryl in front of him, waiting and wanting and making soft, breathy noises of anticipation, there’s no way he can resist being inside him.  
  
He presses the head of his cock against Daryl’s entrance again. “You ready for me?”  
  
“ _Please_ ,” Daryl says. His hips press down and forward into his own fist. “Might be bad at poker but least I know you’re good at this.”  
  
Rick pushes into him, slow and steady, and Daryl opens up for him so easy, even though it’s been a while since they’ve done it this way. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t come home night after night for months, badge off his chest, authority put away and buried down deep for the next day, and begged Daryl for it. Not just begged, but downright pleaded. And maybe there’s something psychological there about a balance of control and power, but there’s also the fact that it feels like fucking heaven to be crawling into Daryl’s lap on the couch or to be pushed against the wall of the shower or bent across the end of the bed. Rick can’t tell anymore if Daryl likes it better that way or if he’s just being selfish, but there’s a certain part of him that could have it all and still want more if it meant that he’d have Daryl in him every second of the day.  
  
But this is good too, _so_ good, because Daryl is tight around him like a vise, and he doesn’t waste a moment before he’s pushing back onto Rick, making a sound that Rick can only describe as _need_. And from that moment on, it’s all _please_ and _yes_ and _more_ and _fuck me harder_ , and Daryl’s voice breaks on every word with little, exhilarating, throaty moans, each and every time he rolls his hips back against Rick. And it’s always been like this; Daryl tops from the bottom, giving up everything and taking it back all at once, and the second Rick thinks he has an ounce of command in the thrust of his hips is the second he realises it really belongs to Daryl. The grip he has on Daryl’s hip isn’t about bracing himself so much as holding on for the ride.

Rick leans forward across Daryl’s back, toes curling against the hardwood floor of the hallway, Daryl’s fingers digging into the carpet of the steps. He’ll bitch about the rug burn for days, Rick already knows, just the way he does when Rick rubs his jaw too long against him and leaves his face and his neck and his back and the insides of his thighs red and raw. But there’ll be the satisfaction there too, every time they go up or down the stairs and Rick gives him a look that says, “Remember when I fucked you right there, third step from the bottom, with your ass in the air and your teeth digging into your arm?” Because that’s what Daryl’s doing, his face turned against the hard muscle of his own bicep, teeth biting down like he’s trying to hold in the string of curse words already on his lips.  
  
Rick bites at his neck, determined to leave a mark, the kind that will make Daryl’s co-workers take a second look. He wraps one arm around Daryl’s waist, reaching down between his legs and knocking his hand away, taking over and stroking slow, out of time with his own thrusts, and Daryl’s whimper of “ _Fuck_!” turns quickly into a rough, “Fuck you, goddamn it, Rick, _please_ \--”  
  
Rick can’t help but make a noise that’s half-laugh, half-moan. He’s in so deep that it feels a lot like the oppressive heat of Georgia’s hottest summer days, when it turns the body into a furnace and you writhe like you’re on fire, wanting only the blessed relief of cool air, and that in itself is a lot like orgasm. It’s coming faster than Rick wants it to, the slow creep of wickedly satisfying pleasure up his spine, in his belly. He wants this to last all night, wants Daryl on his knees and positively aching for him, saying his name in between every other sinful sigh and gasp. And this is anything but scripted, but each and every one of them comes in just the right place, makes Rick’s cock throb inside him with the same suspenseful excitement of waiting for fireworks.  
  
His hand tightens around Daryl’s cock and he quickens his pace. Daryl’s back bows and he stretches out, hands reaching a couple of steps up, and every time Rick’s hand strokes all the way to the tip of his cock and nudges the edge of the step right below Daryl’s hips, he can feel the damp spot where Daryl has been dripping precome like crazy. Daryl’s cock is slick with it, and it might just be the hottest fucking thing that Rick can conceive of at the present moment, excluding the way that Daryl shakes, whole body straining and trembling like a stutter. Rick can tell that he’s right on the edge.

“Gonna make me come, please make me come,” Daryl gasps, his voice the kind of frenzied, frenetic thing that Rick loves to hear. It’s so unlike his normal, quiet Daryl, this loudmouthed, pleading man who’s just about as desperate for release as Rick.

And Rick urges him on, leaning down again and licking up between his shoulderblades to his neck, sucking another mark to the surface of his skin, whispering, “C’mon, babe, come for me.”

Daryl’s orgasm is forceful, so much so that it almost catches Rick off guard, the keening cry bursting from somewhere way down in him. Daryl’s muscles tighten reflexively around Rick, and that’s what gets him there. One second, Rick’s still somehow finding the energy to keep moving, and the next, Daryl’s dragging his own orgasm from him so fast and hard that Rick digs his nails into Daryl’s hip, almost pulls him down off the step with his arm wrapped tight around his waist as he comes deep inside him. The feeling that burns its way through him is exquisite and he revels in it, rides it out and murmurs Daryl’s name against the goosebumps on his skin.  
  
It’s a long few minutes before he pulls free of Daryl, before Daryl turns and damn near collapses, sprawled out across the steps, narrowly missing putting his elbow in a drop of his own spunk. Rick sinks slowly to the floor at the foot of the steps, lacking the energy to move up them, to kiss Daryl like he’d planned.  
  
Instead, he just says, “Love you.”  
  
“I love you,” Daryl answers. “Consolation prize as good as you hoped?”  
  
“Better,” Rick says breathlessly. “As always.”  
  
“Mm,” Daryl murmurs, and he leans his head back against the step, eyes closing. “Maybe next time I’ll let you win.”  
  
“Maybe next time, I’ll _beat_ you.”  
  
Daryl laughs and lifts his head up to look at him. “Not a chance. You couldn’t beat me at a game of Go Fish, Grimes.”  
  
And Rick just smiles, gesturing up at Daryl who’s exhausted and half boneless, and says, “Then it’s nice to know that even when I lose, I win.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers.


End file.
